The silence after battle is always the loudest.
Darlington learned this truth as he stood on his invisible platform, watching the aftermath unfold below. The shadow army was shattered, remnants fleeing into the distant darkness of Valhalla's endless halls. The golden army of Camelot stood in exhausted victory, but no cheers rose. No celebration.
They were gathering.
The Knights of the Round Table those who still stood formed a circle in the center of the glassed sand. Their armor was dented, their faces streaked with sweat and shadow-ash. Between them, on the ground, lay what remained of Sir Beloberis.
Lancelot knelt beside his cousin's body, his head bowed. He hadn't moved since the moment Beloberis fell. His sword, Aronde, lay in the sand beside him, forgotten. His shoulders were still, his breathing shallow. He was a statue of grief, carved from a living man.
Arthur approached slowly. The king's armor was still radiant, Excalibur's glow fading to a soft hum at his hip. But his face his face was something Darlington hadn't expected to see on a legend.
Guilt.
Arthur stopped beside Lancelot. For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Arthur lowered himself to one knee, the gesture so unexpected that several knights shifted uncomfortably. A king did not kneel. Not for anyone.
But Arthur did.
"Lance," he said quietly. His voice was rough, stripped of the commanding tone he'd used on the battlefield. Just a man, speaking to his friend.
Lancelot didn't respond.
Arthur's jaw tightened. He looked at Beloberis's face, peaceful now in death, the shock gone, leaving only stillness. "I'm sorry," Arthur whispered. The words were meant only for Lancelot, but Darlington heard them clearly. "I'm sorry it has to be like this."
Lancelot's head lifted slightly. His eyes, when they met Arthur's, were empty. Hollowed out.
"You know," Lancelot said, his voice a dry rasp, "if we were still alive if this was Earth, if we were still men of flesh and blood I would say we'll meet again. In the afterlife. That death isn't the end." He looked back at Beloberis. "But there is no afterlife here. We're already dead. We're souls. And when a soul dies here… there's no return."
Arthur's hand gripped his knee, knuckles white.
"He's gone," Lancelot continued. "Really gone. Not to a better place. Not to peace. Just… nothing."
The silence stretched. Around them, the other knights stood motionless, their weapons lowered, their heads bowed. Sir Gawain's great sword rested point-down in the sand. Sir Percival's spear trembled slightly in his grip. Sir Bors, the fiercest of them, had tears cutting tracks through the grime on his cheeks.
Arthur found his voice. "We must not let grief consume us, Lance. That is what it means to be a knight of Camelot. To stand, even when standing feels impossible. To carry on, for those who cannot."
Lancelot turned to look at him fully. For a moment, something flickered in those hollow eyes something sharp, almost bitter.
"Grief is what makes us human, Arthur." His voice was quiet, but it cut. "Ambition makes us monsters. And monsters… monsters are still human, underneath. Just broken ones."
Arthur flinched. The words hit him like a physical blow. He held Lancelot's gaze for a long, painful moment, then looked away.
"You're right," he said finally. "You're right." He stood, his knees popping, and drew Excalibur. The blade caught the artificial light of Valhalla's eternal sky, gleaming with quiet power. "But now I must do the duties of a king. Even when my heart is breaking. Even when I've failed."
He walked to Beloberis's body. The other knights stirred, understanding. One by one, they raised their weapons Gawain with his great sword, Percival with his spear, Bors with his axes, Gareth with his blade, Geraint with his lance, Gaheris with his shield and sword. The circle tightened, weapons pointed skyward, forming a canopy of steel over their fallen brother.
Arthur stood at Beloberis's head. Excalibur rose.
"I am Arthur Pendragon," he said, his voice carrying across the silent army. "Your king. And I have failed you, Sir Beloberis. Failed you in life, when I could not protect you. Failed you in death, when I could not give you peace." His voice cracked, but he pushed through. "But even after this after your second death, your final end I swear I will not fail your memory. You will not be forgotten. Not while Camelot stands. Not while any of us draw breath."
He raised Excalibur higher. The blade began to glow, soft at first, then brighter, building toward something.
"On Earth, we said 'may we meet again.' I cannot say that now. I cannot promise you an afterlife, or reunion, or peace." Tears fell from Arthur's face, tracking through the grime. "But I can promise this: your memory will never depart from our minds. You will live in us, as long as we endure."
The light from Excalibur intensified, washing over Beloberis's body.
"Return to Camelot. "
The light bloomed.
It wasn't violent like the Cruel Sun. It was gentle, warm, like sunlight through leaves on a summer morning. It enveloped Beloberis's body, and slowly, peacefully, the knight began to dissolve. Not into ash or dust, but into motes of golden light that rose like fireflies, spiraling upward, higher and higher, until they vanished into the sky.
When the last light faded, the stone where Beloberis had lain was empty. Clean. As if he had never been there at all.
Lancelot stared at the empty stone. His face was unreadable, but his hand the hand that had been empty at his side slowly closed into a fist.
Who are you?
The thought wasn't spoken aloud. It was aimed upward, at the invisible presence that had spoken to him during the battle. At the voice that had whispered poison in his ear at the worst possible moment.
Why can't the others hear you? Why only me?
Darlington heard the thought as clearly as if Lancelot had shouted it. He felt the weight of it, the confusion and anger and desperate need for answers. And he felt something else too an opening. A crack in Lancelot's armor that hadn't been there before.
He answered.
I am a fallen god.
The words formed in Lancelot's mind like his own thoughts, but wrong—too smooth, too intentional. His hand tightened on his sword hilt. His eyes scanned the sky, searching.
I will kill the gods, Darlington continued. I will bring freedom to Valhalla. Every soul trapped here, fighting endless wars for their amusement I will free them all.
A lie. Darlington knew it was a lie. He was no god, fallen or otherwise. He was a boy in a school blazer, barely holding together. But Hyacinth's voice echoed in his memory: Adopt the mindset of a god. And gods, he was learning, did whatever they needed to do.
Then why me? Lancelot's thought was sharp, suspicious. Why choose me?
Darlington hesitated. The truth, or another lie? He looked at Lancelot—really looked, past the legendary warrior, past the grief and rage, down to something deeper. And he understood.
Because we're the same.
Lancelot's mental flinch was physical.
I can feel it, Darlington pressed. The anger. The complex emotions that fill your soul. The hate for the fate granted to you. You were the greatest knight, the most skilled, the most worthy and what did it get you? A kingdom that couldn't protect your cousin. A king who failed you. A god's game where you're just a piece on the board.
He paused, letting the words sink in.
I choose you as my vessel against them.
Lancelot's jaw tightened. His knuckles were white on Aronde's hilt. Around him, the other knights were beginning to move, beginning to speak, the funeral breaking up into the practicalities of war. But Lancelot stood frozen, locked in a conversation no one else could hear.
And why, he thought slowly, each word deliberate, would I support your goals? I owe allegiance to no one but my king.
That king failed you.
The words were simple. Brutal. True.
Lancelot's breath caught.
And yet you're still blinded, Darlington continued, his mental voice growing sharper, more insistent. Blinded by loyalty. By virtue. By honor. By all the pretty words they use to keep good men in line.
He could feel Lancelot's resistance, the walls of a lifetime of discipline and devotion. But he could also feel the cracks the doubt that had been planted when Beloberis fell, the rage that had been suppressed for years, the quiet, terrible question Lancelot had never allowed himself to ask:
What if Arthur was wrong?
Escape from it all, Lancelot. Darlington's voice softened, became almost gentle. Embrace the truth. He failed you. He failed your cousin. He stands there with his shining sword and his pretty words, and Beloberis is still dead. Still gone. Forever.
Lancelot's hand trembled on his sword.
He failed you.
The words echoed.
HE FAILED YOU.
With a cry of raw, undiluted fury, Lancelot hurled Aronde into the sand.
The sound metal striking stone, the clang echoing across the battlefield drew every eye. Knights turned. Soldiers stared. Arthur, mid-conversation with Gawain, went rigid.
Lancelot stood panting, his sword half-buried in the sand several feet away. His chest heaved. His eyes were wild, unfocused, fixed on something no one else could see.
"Lance?" Arthur's voice was careful, concerned. He took a step forward. "Lance, what—"
"A minute." Lancelot's voice was raw, torn. He held up a hand, stopping Arthur in his tracks. "I need a minute. Alone."
He didn't wait for permission. He turned and walked, leaving his sword where it lay, leaving the circle of knights, leaving the king who had been his brother. He walked across the glassed sand toward a distant dune, his back straight, his steps uneven.
No one followed.
Arthur watched him go, something breaking in his eyes. Gawain moved to follow, but Arthur's hand on his arm stopped him.
"Let him go," the king said quietly. "He needs… he needs to think."
The knights dispersed slowly, the weight of the day pressing down on them. The army began to set up camp, the practical rhythms of survival taking over. But Arthur stood where he was, watching his oldest friend walk away, and wondering perhaps for the first time if some wounds couldn't be healed by loyalty alone.
Darlington watched Lancelot climb the dune. Watched him stop at the top, alone against the artificial sky. Watched him stand there, motionless, a silhouette of grief and rage.
He'll come around, Darlington thought. They always do, when the alternative is nothing.
But even as he thought it, he felt a twinge of something uncomfortable. Guilt? No. He couldn't afford guilt. Guilt was for people who had choices. He had no choices. He had only purpose.
Hyacinth would be proud, he told himself. Manipulating legends. Playing god.
The thought didn't feel as good as he'd expected.
Below, Lancelot stood alone with his thoughts, and Darlington stood alone with his, and the war of Valhalla continued around them both, indifferent to the small dramas of broken men.